


Take my Blues as Read

by oh_mr_adams



Category: Fallen London | Echo Bazaar
Genre: Banter, M/M, OC backstory, Sexual References, idk what i was doing i was just putting words together in a vague order
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-12 12:07:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28510161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oh_mr_adams/pseuds/oh_mr_adams
Summary: He knows this isn't what he came underground for.Some self-indulgent rambling OC nonsense.
Relationships: The Jovial Contrarian/Original Male Character (Fallen London)
Kudos: 10





	Take my Blues as Read

_ Breath. _ _  
_ _ Time slows to a gentle, rhythmic click. Seconds turn to minutes, drawn out as heartbeats vanish into nothing. The rising of his chest stills. Every muscle locks into place as blood freezes in his veins.  _ _  
_ _ Focus. _ _  
_ _ His mind is a tunnel created by the pin point of a needle. The universe ceases its cycle as he commands it to halt around this singular moment in time. There are only so many moments between each heartbeat. With each heartbeat, fate locks further into place.  _ _  
_ _ Now. _ _  
_ _ The way his veins contract with the constricting of ventricles. A perfect machine, tendons and joints pull as hydraulics, working mechanically, effortlessly. _ _  
_ _  
_ He pulls the trigger.   
If one shoots without considering the beating of his own heart, his body’s internal mechanisms can throw off his aim, throw off his mission. Edmund has learned to work within the boundaries of his body’s own weaknesses. He turns and flees from the rooftop, not bothering to wait and see if his bullet has hit its mark.

All is formulaic. 

He awakens with a thunderous headache and his bed is empty. When he rolls over, one arm extended only to meet air and sheets, he groans. His stomach turns as he rises and he nearly falls back into bed, his vision blurring and his head throbbing painfully.    
  
He stumbles into the living room, where the Contrarian is stretched out on his sofa with the morning newspaper. Edmund runs a hand through his hair in greeting as he passes.    
  
“I’d say good morning,” he says from behind his newspaper, “but your expression indicates otherwise.” Edmund gives a vague grunt, taking a half-emptied bottle of whiskey from the cabinet and pouring himself a glass. The Contrarian puts down his paper, raising an eyebrow. “I didn’t wake you up because I thought you’d outdone yourself last night,” he nods to the whiskey, “But clearly I was mistaken.”   
  
“You know. Hair of the dog and all that,” Edmund grumbles, filling his glass. The Contrarian snorts.    
  
“Hair of the dog usually doesn’t entail going back for another bite.” Edmund is too tired to come up with an adequately witty response, so he gives him a gentle slap on the head and motions for him to sit up. He sinks into the couch and the Contrarian puts his head back down in his lap. “Well,” he says with comfortable satisfaction, “Good morning anyway.” 

“Good morning, August,” Edmund says quietly and rakes his fingers through the man’s hair while he talks animatedly about his opinions on the various opinions outlined in the editorial section.

The year is 1895 and Edmund Bigsby is, perhaps for the first time, content. Each morning he rises, cooks breakfast (no longer only for himself), lectures at the university, and depending on the day, either heads home to grade papers or kills people for money. August looks at him with disapproval when he comes home late, moreso when the job evidently required a more  _ hands on  _ approach, but he’ll accept kisses provided the scent of blood isn’t too strong.    
  
Edmund will cook dinner if he’s not too tired while listening to August excitedly recount something or other. If he’s too tired, he’ll simply pour himself a drink and sit with him in comfortable silence.

Edmund Bigsby is, perhaps for the last time, content.

It’s in the quiet little moments that he begins to doubt himself. When August brings fresh coffee to him on a late night or finds his glasses for him in the morning. He starts to doubt his life, the impossible dream of domesticity leaving an uneasiness that lingers on his shoulders. Like if he blinks, it will vanish, or worse, become evident it was never even real to begin with. This kind of life doesn’t belong to people like him, and he’s come to accept that it will not last. He isn’t sure if he wants it to.

He almost tries to reconcile his childhood with his present situation, but he knows it won’t work. All of the days spent studying political battlefields like chess boards, the nights spent learning to time gunshots between heartbeats, the loving bruises and dark shadows under his eyes.    
  
Being eleven years old and, with vast annoyance, trying to explain to particularly dull constables that no, his parents did not commit suicide, because  _ that’s not what exit wounds look like _ while his brother sobs in the next room. The instructions left for him directed him to set fire to the family home and bury the more incendiary research out back. They did not leave any helpful hints pertaining to matters of love.   
  
It’s with August’s tongue in his mouth and his hands on his hips that he knows this is not what he came underground for. When August announces his second attempt to run for mayor on a vastly different platform, Edmund leaves for work in the morning and does not come back. He’s always felt more comfortable in his cramped apartment above the bookshop anyway, accompanied by his guns and books and cheaper whiskey. Sleeping alone is more comfortable too, and there’s no one to complain about the scent of blood that lingers on his clothes.    
  


A single letter arrives for him in the mail, with a familiar wax seal and his name scrawled in August’s immaculate handwriting. He doesn’t open it, he simply leaves it on his desk and quickly forgets about it. No others arrive. Opposition to the revolution must be crushed, and so that is what fills his days when he’s not lecturing on the finer details of Third City oil lamps or something else equally distracting. When the night of the election comes and goes, he’s disappointed by the results but not disastrously so; it’s all just pomp and circumstance, an empty title for an empty position, perfect for an empty person with no real convictions anyway. He drinks his whiskey alone and stares into the fireplace.

He resents himself when he finds himself in August’s bed again, silent while London’s  _ mayor  _ reads aloud from a book of poetry beside him. He’d shown up soaked in rain and blood, his rifle still strapped to his back, and was met with a bath, dinner, and some of the greatest sex of his life. He stares up at the ceiling as he contemplates how the hell he’d managed to get himself into such a position. There was nothing to be gained from such vulnerability aside from a few fleeting moments of quiet domesticity. Quiet domesticity could be considered  _ after  _ the revolution, Edmund thinks, rolling over and burying his face in August’s side. The mayor scoffs slightly but puts a hand in his hair. 

“If I didn’t know any better,” the mayor says with a certain tone in his voice, “I’d almost believe you’ve missed me.”   
  
“It’s a good thing you know far better, then,” Edmund grumbles into his side.    
  
“Now really.”   
  
“Really.”    
  
August snaps his book shut and sets it down on the bedside table. “If you hadn’t missed me, then what inspired you to come crawling back to my door looking like a drowned rat?”   
  
Edmund gives a lazy shrug. “You might be a weak-willed, counter-revolutionary scumbag, (August snorts) but I’d be a liar if I said you weren’t handsome.” He props himself up on one elbow. “And for better or for worse, you’re fantastic with your mouth in more ways than one.” He then scowls, lying back down and staring up at the ceiling. “And I don’t crawl.”   
  
“You would if I’d asked.”   
  
“I’m fairly sure that having sex with you actually sets back the liberation of night.” August then laughs and Edmund resents himself for enjoying the sound. “Are you at the very least entertaining the idea of abolishing the constabulary?”

“Must we talk politics in the afterglow?”

“Answer the question.”   
  
August sighs, settling down beside him and cupping his face in one hand, rubbing his thumb along the length of his cheekbone. “Of course not.”   
  
“You’re pathetic.”   
  
“Don’t be rude.”   
  
“You’re truly pathetic.”   
  
“Edmund.”   
  
“I mean it’s the very least you could do,” Edmund hisses, “Nobody’s expecting you to be an actual revolutionary, but at the very least-” he’s cut off when August grabs a handful of his hair and gives him a look he’s not quite familiar with. 

“My dear boy, if I’m truly as pathetic as you say, I welcome you to stop showing up at my doorstep whenever you’re in the need of physical, mental, and emotional  _ gratification,  _ but until that day, I suggest you be more polite.”

Edmund scowls. “That’s always what it is with you society types,” his voice is harsh but not argumentative, “Politeness, over all else.”   
  
“A little manners will go a long way. It’s the least you can do, what with showing up here without so much as a moment’s notice.” Edmund falls silent, relaxing a little in both defeat and relief. If he must be  _ polite,  _ then he can simply hold his tongue and enjoy the man’s warmth and the way he smells faintly of chocolate and coffee and bourbon and not be expected to advocate his revolutionary ideals every waking hour of the day. 

“It’s still a mystery to me as to why they put you on the council,” he says quietly, and August has released his grip and is now gently stroking his hair.   
  
“It helps to have connections. And they all know how fun I am at parties.”   
  
“ _ Fun  _ is one way of putting it, I suppose.”   
  
August chuckles and puts an arm around him, and Edmund tries his best not to think about the strength in his biceps and shoulders and chest. “I still don’t understand why you won’t abolish the constabulary,” Edmund says quietly, not looking up from the man’s chest. “I get you’re more a reformist than anything tangible, but you can’t actually believe-”   
  
“I can believe anything I please.”   
  
“What do you believe?” August yawns and pulls him in a bit closer.   
  
“I believe you’ve no right to judge my political machinations.”   
  
“And why’s that?”   
  
August shrugs. “Well, you are a bit of a terrorist. You did blow up a bank last week.” Edmund is almost touched that he can recognize his work.   
  
“You’re a civil servant.”   
  
“And?”   
  
“And that means I’m your boss, doesn’t it? As a citizen?”    
  
August laughs. “I thought you were against bosses.”   
  
“Well you signed up for the job, didn’t you?”   
  
“I suppose I did. I can’t privilege your wants and needs over the rest of the citizenry though, I hope you understand.”   
  
“Am I not special?”   
  
August smiles wistfully. “Not in this circumstance, dear boy.”

Edmund lays there, his head on August’s chest, surrounded by the faint smells of sweat and coffee and bourbon, and he knows this is not what he came underground for.

  
  



End file.
